Natalya
Present
The charcoal glides across the paper as I darken the shadows along his throat, carefully shaping the curve of the chain resting against his skin. When the contrast becomes too harsh, I drag my fingertip across the enormous sketch, smudging the black pigment until the shadows soften.
Music blasts through my studio, guiding my abrupt movements.
I lean back, kneeling in front of my drawing to look at it from afar. The sketch begins with his jawline, shadows and lines spreading downward to form his neck and part of his chest.
My head tilts to the side as I start darkening the edges of the silver cross resting in the dip between his collarbones. My hand moves on instinct and muscle memory as a pleasant heat unfurls through me, the drawing coming to life once again, pulling me in and molding my new reality.
My hand slows down, stops sketching, fingertips gliding over his olive skin, tracing the prominent vein and the heat emanating from his neck.
My mouth twitches into a half-smile as I shut my eyes, fully surrendering to the moment, letting him pull me under.
Then the music suddenly quiets.
I look up, torn out of the memory. He’s standing by the speaker, turning the volume down before making his way toward me.
Straightening, I quickly shove another huge sketch over this one, covering it clumsily with trembling hands.
He hates when I remember.
I pretend to focus on the new sketch of a figure-skating silhouette when I feel him stop behind me, watching over my shoulder.
“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs behind my back.
I turn to him, smiling proudly.
He’s towering above me, studying me intently, his blond hair contrasting with the dark walls of my studio. He’s so handsome and yet so eerily cold that goosebumps break out across my skin.
He lowers himself into a crouch beside me, his gaze flicking between the sketch and me. Then he reaches for my hand and studies the black charcoal dust coating my fingertips, as if it’s fascinating him.
I lie down on the floor, right on top of the sketch, my hair spilling around me as I bask in the fresh drawing. I grab his tie and pull him down on top of me with a giggle.
The rafters of my studio are made of dark wood, while mirrors stretch across one of the walls. He made sure there was enough space for me to train, paint, or dance whenever I want to.
He always wants to watch me.
He presses a kiss to my forehead when I let my head fall to the side, watching us in the mirror. Then his tongue finds my chest, and the contact sends a jolt of anticipation through my body, tearing a soft moan from my lips.
I close my eyes and continue where I left off in my fantasy.
The silver cross glides over my chest. It always swings there, brushing my skin when he’s on top of me.
The buckle of his belt catches beneath my fingertips as I work it open, too impatient to wait any longer. I need him. Right here.
Opening my eyes, I catch our reflection in the mirrors once more. He’s supporting himself on one arm as he remains between my thighs, dark curls grazing the sensitive skin of my lower stomach with every small movement, the ticklish sensation drawing a quiet, breathless laugh from me.
Then he stops.
Everything stops.
I blink, and the reflection is gone. Nothing stares back at me but an empty mirror.
My pulse surges as my gaze drifts upward, drawn toward the ceiling almost against my will.
It’s already burning. Flames race hungrily across the old wood, devouring it until it cracks and smolders beneath the weight of the fire.
Then one of the beams gives way. Blackened and hollowed out by the fire, it tears loose from the ceiling and hurtles straight toward me. Air rushes into my lungs as I try to scream, but the sound dies somewhere inside my chest. All I can do is lie there and wait for the impact.
“Natalya!”
His voice makes me jerk upright, pulling me back.
Ice-blue eyes burn through me.
“I’m not a fucking fantasy you can mold into something else,” he forces out, his jaw tight.
I realize he’s holding my cheek, forcing me to look straight at him.
He’s angry.
“Do you understand?” His hold tightens, enough to feel like a threat.
Then his attention flicks to the floor beside me. I follow it only to see my drawing peeking out from beneath the other sketch. It must have moved when we were kissing. The glimpse of collarbones and chain is enough for him to know what it is.
I look back at him, his stare darkening.
A chill crawls down my spine, close to fear but not enough to stop my stupid mouth.
“Then make it stop,” I force out.
“How, angel? How can I make it stop, hm?” His grip tightens more, fingers digging forcefully into my chin.
“Just make it stop. I can’t tell you apart anymore,” I whisper.
His brows furrow, anger creeping into his expression.
“Make me realize it’s you,” I add.
His hand suddenly clamps around my throat, grip tightening until air stops reaching my lungs.
“Can you now, hm?” he forces out.
“Mhm,” I choke out.
The pressure becomes painful, and somehow, I welcome it.
The vision stays the same. Nothing moves and nothing burns, as if, for once, my mind is incapable of running away when it needs to focus on physical pain.
But my survival instinct eventually forces me to cough and end it, trying to push his hand away before I pass out.
The second he lets go, I shoot upright, gasping for air.
As soon as my lungs fill enough to function, I realize I’m not on my studio floor anymore.
There are no mirrors, no fireplace, nothing that seems familiar. My hands roam over the sheets beneath me. They’re dark, soft, and silky, but I don’t recognize them at first.
My head automatically tilts back, checking the ceiling.
Vast and gothic... right. This one again.
The number of places I keep waking up in is starting to get unbearable.
I lurch out of bed and look around, searching every surface around me, waiting to see if it’s going to start changing or not. Then I take a few steps toward the open balcony doors, autumn’s breeze hitting my face.
It feels like morning.
Was it a dream? Or a memory? Or both?
I stand there, my feet freezing against the stone balcony floor. Dark curtains fly in the wind, flapping between the balcony and the rest of the suite.
The sharp click of a closing door cuts through the silence. Spinning around, I find Kiara standing just inside the room, her hand still resting on the handle as she watches me. Anger hardens my jaw before I’m already striding toward her.
“Where the fuck am I?” I whip out.
“Nat—”
“Where is he? Where is Lucien!”
I stop by the bed, crossing my arms over my chest, waiting for her to explain.
“Nat, he’s gone. It’s just us now,” she says gently.
“Where is he,” I repeat.
“He’s gone.”
“Gone where!”
“He left you with me.”
I let out a bitter laugh.
“Someone’s coming to talk to you,” she says.
“Who?”
“She’s coming to help you.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Not this bullshit.
“Help me with what!” I squeak out.
“You said you forget things all the time, right? Remember when you told me?” she says.
I shrug and nod. I don’t remember exactly, but I guess I told her that at some point.
“She’s gonna help you remember,” she adds.
I throw my hands up in frustration.
“What if I don’t want to!” I bite back.
She hesitantly tilts her head and smiles fondly. “Believe me, you want to.”
“Kiara,” I snap and start pacing the room. “I’m not crazy, okay? I get confused sometimes, yes, but...” I trail off, losing it. “Just tell me where the fuck I am! And where all my stuff is!”
“This is my home. You’re with me now,” she says simply. “And you’re safe,” she adds, smiling as if nothing is wrong.
Safe.
She says it as if I wasn’t able to take care of myself.
“I don’t care if I’m safe, Kiara. I can take care of myself just fine. I just want to know what this place is!” I shoot back.
“It’s my home, Nat. Lucien is gone.”
I grip my head, trying to force my stupid mind to help me with this, but no explanation comes.
“Why don’t I remember how I got here?” I grit out.
“I’m so sorry for this,” she says, visibly trying to force something else out, but I can’t listen to that anymore.
I stop in the middle of the room, a string of incoherent sounds escaping me before frustration finally wins and sends me retreating toward what seems to be the bathroom.
This is just another fucking nightmare.
I find the shower and crawl into it, turning the water as hot as it will go and letting it pour over me while I sit down and hug my knees.
My mind searches desperately for the last time I saw him and for the reason I’m in a different place again, but my sense of time is completely fucked these days. Yesterday and a year ago have started feeling exactly the same.
He wouldn’t leave me.
Did he find more drawings? Did I say his name out loud? Did I make him so angry that he left me?
He wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t do that to me.